


daffodils and marigolds

by GDay_Yall



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Les Misérables - pick your verse
Genre: A day in the life of our lovely idiots, Angst, Cemetery, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enjoy!, Getting Together, Language of Flowers, M/M, Musical/Brick Fusion, Other, Part case fic, Post-Seine, Romani Javert, Splice of Life, and butcherment of prose, liberal use of semi colons (as per usual), lots of side notes, my crimes include:, no beta we die like revolutionaries, or at least an attempt, or really exhausted to help to acquaintances to lovers, part introspection, they speed run past friendship, through abuse of the english language, very heavy on the Dallas/Modern AU fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:02:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26345311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GDay_Yall/pseuds/GDay_Yall
Summary: / two broken men, a cemetery, learning the language of flowers, and the significance of good company.(a case fic/post-seine heal posed from the question that is Javert's mother)
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	1. de Baracheil

**Author's Note:**

> I had a question; I sat down; I realized I had no idea what I was doing; I cried. The case fic part of this is completly done though, I just have to write everything else down.
> 
> Until then, enjoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ They agreed upon ninety minutes. Javert could last ninety minutes for himself. He has lasted nearly fifty years, ninety minutes would do him good. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: wow ok this was a bit of a mess on my end, fixed it up. Please enjoy! I’m planning on having chapter updates on Mons until complete, so plz hold me to that this is one of my first super long boys and I may get lost

Jean would freely admit, no matter how much time the two had spent together over the past year and some, it was hard to recognize Javert outside of uniform, outside of the serenity of their - _their,_ remarkable - home. Jean nearly passed him that first time, out of sear unknowingness. 

(A small note: Javert spent a lot of time to himself. As a child, as an adolescent, as an adult. In Toulon, in Montreuil-sur-Mur, before the Seine, after. Madeline had prescribed it to workplace diligence, Valjean to loneliness. It took Jean a while to understand, it was just how Javert was. He patrolled by himself, inspected by himself, performed his duty by himself; even in private matters the man kept to himself - but as Jean would come to find out, no, not quite. Javert was quiet and observant, and he was more physical than vocal when it came to affirmation, discussions, affections. Showing in place of saying, as it were. But he also spent quite a bit of time in the office and took quite a few walks. _A replacement for the exercise of patrol_ , he said to Jean one day, the reason for the later, but it didn’t feel like the full truth. 

Many things they shared then had felt like half truths, quarter truths, tibits kept unknown out of habit. There were many patterns they were learning to break back then, and still now. No one is as open a book as they appear to be, especially two men of fractured and broken laws.)

That first time. It was the second month after the Seine. Javert had been released from the general hospital, but was not cleared to be on his own yet. As such, unable to return to his own apartment and not close enough to anyone in the imminent area that had the time, the responsibility had fallen to Valjean to ensure that Javert did not over exert or do something heinous to himself again.

Javert had been at the hospital for a week and a half, and had been staying with Valjean for six weeks thereafter. Javert was getting antsy, Jean could see. He was barred from returning to the service he would praise and damn in the same breath for another two weeks, but the taller man wanted to do _something_. Anything. Anything at all. Anything that let him move further than the few hundred feet circuit of Valjean’s house. 

(Anything to get out from under the gaze - not quite pity, not quite worry, not quite an emotion that Javert deserved to have directed at him - and the soft brown eyes and the care - the last thing Javert needed, therapy can go damn itself - of that impossible man.) 

Valjean was hesitant, rightfully so, and wouldn’t let the man leave by himself until he agreed to text every thirty minutes he was fine and especially if he had any problems with his knee or with his ribs or any kind of pain. 

“What am I, a fricken tennager,” Javert grumbled as he pocket his phone in a borrowed hoodie that was simultaneously too large and too short, jeans and the only pair of non-work shoes he owned - Dubois had dropped the few of Javert’s non-government issued clothes when he came by a handful of weeks ago, the only officer under him Javert felt willing to give his address to and was not-quite-sympathetic but not-quite-ridiculing of him enough to still look him in the eye. 

“When you act like one, you’ll be treated like one.” 

(Valjean’s little shit of an attitude was an interesting facet to adjust to, but dealable. That was distinctly Valjean - not the prisoner, or the businessman, or the mayor, or the philanthropist, or the saint, or any other title he had held. That was Vajean, like blackberry lilies and citrus tea and caring about nettles of all damn things.)

(Javert was also starting to realize how many accounts of identity fraud Valjean had brewing under him, and it made him crack even more under his personal strain. _How many damn names did this many have anyway_ . _And why was I letting him get away with it?_ )

“What kind of teenagers are you dealing with?”

“Have you met a local teenager recently?”

Jean flinched as soon as the words registered in his head. Javert stopped his fidgeting, a drop in his face. They both had thought of the same people, the same teenagers, the same children in red. Jean reached a hand out to Javert, meaning to placate the man - the guilt of surviving was always the hardest to overcome - but the other man didn’t answer, he just left and went on his way. 

Jean sighed deeply. Great. Now he would be thinking about that all say, and so would Javert, and Jean would feel guilt and dread wash over like waves, like it happened just last week instead of all those months ago at the beginning of summer. 

(It always started as thus: _you saved one, why couldn’t you save more?_ and _Why didn’t you?_ and _Why wouldn’t you? You could._ and _They were boys, girls, after all, just children._ And thus would deteriorate and fall and fail into more of his shortcomings and time and and _they were your fault after all_ and _Jeanette and the littles and Fantine and --)_

But for now: current business.

Jean found himself in a dilemma. If he went after Javert, after agreeing to let him walk by himself now that he could without assistance, it may damage the tender treatise they had fallen into over the man’s stay. But if he left him completely alone, Jean has no idea what the inspector would get into. Still wired as a policeman, still wired as a stubborn mule, still wired to the law, Jean had hoped at this point that both would favor Javert maintaining his feet on dry land, but it could just as easily land him into trouble. These facts could very easily land him into trouble, this is Javert we're talking about.

Jean rubbed his neck. The pit of anxiety would not leave his chest. A choice had to be made. Javert had been making progress, both physically and mentally over the last few weeks. Javert could move freely about the property, and their nightly discussions had gotten more lively. The wit and spark that Madeleine entertained way back when was beginning to return. Not in full force, for lawful wounds cut him and moral grays drew him to a stutter and there were times when he would fall into disturbed silence, but definite improvement from the shell he had brought home. 

Javert was a grown man. He could fend for himself, even if the razor still shook with restraint. He could take care of himself, even if he was still shaking in the heat. He could take care of himself even if he was still fractured. He could --

They agreed upon ninety minutes. Javert could last ninety minutes for himself. He has lasted nearly fifty years, ninety minutes would do him good. 

Jean cracked his neck. Now down to eighty minutes. The walk would do him good. In eighty minutes it would be nearly half past six, and the pantry was getting sparse. Jean determined that, when Javert kept his word and texted in twenty- now nineteen minutes, he would be at the grocery store buying stuff for dinner. Easy. 

Thirty minutes after Javert left on the dot - or presumably, Jean had not kept count but he knew Javert would - a single line of text dinged on Jean’s phone. 

_fine_

Jean sighed, in the middle of trying to determine what kind of boxed pasta he should get. Of course Javert would be that stickler for the detail, if just to be petty. Jean was stuck between a box of penne and spaghetti. He looked down at his phone, then at the boxes. 

Hm. No harm in asking. 

He snapped a picture; _What kind of pasta do you want tonight? I’m stuck on one of these._

The answer bubbles popped up a handful of seconds after. 

_idc either works_

Jean sighed. Why was this man acting as decisive as his teenage daughter. The second and third pings surprised him though.

_on second thought get the tortiglioni_

_bottom left, about elbow height_

And there it was, right were Javert guessed. Why tortiglioni, Jean didn’t know, but at least Javert had decided something. The decisiveness of the old hunting dog, a train of thought that would have worried Jean just a few short months ago, now makes him…

Jean didn’t know what it made him, just that it was good. Maybe better. One of those.

Tortiglioni, tomatoes, pasta sauce, basil, red wine, ground beef and salad prep was all paid for in cash, in a bag, and Valjean was out the door. 

These last few years of stationaritism - or as still as Valjean can settle into an area, any area - has led to many different routes between destinations, particularly anywhere to and from within a seven mile radius of his house. 

So. Seven miles is a respectable walk. Javert could still be within, even walking at his patrol pace of too fast for a human being. Javet could still be within, and Jean would have an excuse to be out that was not checking up on him. He even had digital proof, now. 

So. Seven miles. 

Valjean took the long way home, a route that left his pocket empty in good will and detored far away from the residual effects of June. It passed through an open air market, where he purchased a few apples in early season and eggs (and may have bought a few snacks for the regular gaimins he saw); the park where he walked with Cosette and wonder what would be planted for bloom this year; a gnarled cemetery of interesting occasions - around Halloween last year the vendors would toss tales of haunting and ghouls, but privately, the florist had told Valjean that it was historically the lot for the poorer residents, with upkeep done by the families and held holy by even the most damned of residents. Every time he would pass, Valjean would say the quietest of prayers for those he knew and didn’t on the other side of the viel. 

There was rarely anyone there, this time of year and this time of day. As Valjean passed and said his prayer, a figure caught his eye, towards the back lots. Definitely a man, tall - definitely taller than Valjean -, grayed and worn even from this distance. His hoodie didn’t fit, his jeans were frayed, his shoes --

Valjean ducked his head once he realized who it was. _What was Javert doing in de Barachiel? ?_

It was within seven miles. Definitely within Javert walking distance, fast pace and long legs combined. But… why?

Valjean hurried on, waiting at the corner for the walk sign - cars never stop otherwise, no matter what pedestrian laws exist. He startled when his phone dings, anxiety hitting full force when he saw Javert's name. 

_fine. be back soon_

So he didn’t see him. That did not help Valjeans nerves any. In fact - as he turned to look through the wrought iron fence of the cemetary - it did not help at all. He could still see the towering man’s frame, his iron spine having learned to bend in the intervening months, shoulders slumped and framed in the ironwoods and headstones in de Barachiel.

As rigid as Javet was, still is, always on alert all the time; here, he seemed at peace. Or as peaceful as he could be. He permitted himself to slouch, to rest, to breath. Jean doesn’t remember the last time - if ever - he had seen him like this. Never in Toulon, rest ment weakness and weakness ment pain; the mayor had no sight of it, but fear often clouded his mind; and these last few years has been too much of dancing in circles to really notice anything about the man besides the fact that he was here and Jean shouldn’t be. 

So. Javert peaceful, Javert at rest. An odd sight.

(The Seine was as much of an Epiphany for Javert as it was for Valjean.

That night, Valjean saw. He saw. It was as if he saw for the first time, on that bridge, and that corner. He saw, and he released Javert wasn’t the only one wrong about the realities of man.

This specter of the law, this unyielding hound, this robot of absolutes, this hunter of his for years and years and _years_ , who had made his life hell on Earth decade after decade, made him afraid for the morrow and afraid for the lark and-- this was a man. 

A flesh and blood man, who, by all accounts, looked as though he was coming to terms with that fact as well when Valjean found him. 

A flesh and blood man, who had thoughts and dreams and aspirations, aligned with his - frankly skewed, frankly odd - moral compass. 

A flesh and blood man, who was just there where did he -- oh _shit_.)

(In the minutes and hours and days and weeks after - at the river bank and the hospital and in his rooms: Valjean still saw the law. Still saw the hound. But he was beginning to see the green as well.)

Javert was at peace, in a cemetery of all places. Did he have someone buried there? Javert’s family wasn’t from here, that Jean knew at least. In the hours between sleep and sense, in the seconds between pain and restraint, Javert would slip into a definite lazy slavic accent. (Or a deep southern caricature that _did_ things, ok. Bad things. Memories of Toulon and sea salt and truncheons and banana peppers and—) But the point: Two completely different vocals, which has half of the oddity, but it definitely meant that he wasn’t from the city. Even Valjean knew that.

The walk light was on. Vajean crossed, continuing on his way. Back to the house, where he could think while he cooked.

  
  


(He realized two minutes into the walk, five minutes from the house that he hadn’t replied to Javert. 

_Alright, see you soon! Cooking dinner now._

...

_you went through the market and are still walking home arent you_

Valjean didn’t reply to that one.)


	2. Case 75-03: Warehouse Executions, Intro

_ There were few cases that rattled Javert. Ever since becoming an inspector, he has seen the highs and lows of man, the worst of the worst of crimes. As such, you grow a thick skin, over the years of streets and scars, of discipline and rigor. There were few cases, very few (before Valjean and the Seine and the Epiphany, as Jean liked to call it) that shook him to his core.  _

_ The murder of his mother was one. _


	3. Solidagos

Ninety minutes on the dot, and Javert was back in the house, removing his shoes in the foyer as Valjean cut up the home grown vegetables to throw into the skillet with the sauce and the ground beef. 

“Thirty minutes isn’t soon, by the way,” Valljean threw over his shoulder as he added in the peppers. “Two, five, even ten minutes is soon.” Javert walked into the kitchen and took a seat at the island. “Just for future reference.”

“Hm.”

When Valjean turned around and went to the island to dice the onions, he took stalk of Javert. He definitely seems calmer than when he left. He was no longer fidgeting, no longer tapping, no longer looking like he was going to take off at any second. His hair was neater, no hands had run through them for a while; the hoodie Valjean had lent him had it’s strings perfectly aligned. 

Valjean smiled a small smile. It was… wow, was he _glad_ that Javert was at peace. These past few weeks have been truly chaotic if this was what he was thinking. If this - Valjean hesitated to call it a relationship, but acquaintances was more like Madeline and companions didn’t feel strong enough - was going to continue, then his future train of thoughts are going to be interesting.

“Had a good walk?” Valjean went to throw the onions in the pan, conveniently turned away so Javert couldn’t catch his face. Javert’s astute ability for deductions only seemed to work with face-to-face contact.

“Hm.”

Non-verbal answers. Jean sighed; really, he was trying to mimic teenagers.

“Can you come set the table? I still need to sauté these, they should be done soon.”

Javert stood with an affirmative hum.

Jean rolled his eyes, specifically not looking at how the hoodie and shirt rode up Javert's back at his hips to show off a bit of skin when he reached for the higher-up placewear. “Are you going to give me anything more than hums and grunts?”

Javert snorted. He did that alot - Jean assumed it was his replacement for a chuckle or laugh. No, wait, Javert chuckled, but sarcastically, and his laughs were terrifying. This was possibly his only true way of showing amusement. “Hm.”

Jean sighed. Fine then. 

As Javert set the table, he finally said his first words of the evening: “Sometimes, I think you just keep me around just to reach your plates.”

Jean wanted to rebuke that, or comment on the fact Javert had magically relearned sentence structure and vocabulary, but the pasta was nearly boiling over so he had to get to that first. 

“How did you even get that stuff before?”

“Well,” Jean leaned far back from the steam, hoping not to get slapped in the face with boiling humidity, “you have seen Cosette. Plus there are these magical little things called step stools and standing on counters.”

(Javert met Cosette in the beginning of all of this, when he was first released. Bedraggled, exchaused, and leaning on Jean and a cruch, it was not the worst first impression he's given but it's definitely up there. Jean had told her he was an old friend who got caught in the riots that he was helping rehabilitate. 

Javert thought it was the most bullshit cover story he had ever had the displeasure of being a part of. He still adhered to that.)

“How you have not broken your neck yet is a miracle,” Javet commented as he brought down a pasta bowl to pass on to the shorter man. It was one of the larger bowls, as Jean had noticed that the best way to make sure Javert was getting his weight back was to cook more amounts. Neither liked to waste food, but where Jean had tupperware, Javert just ate. 

“My family’s been in arboring since before I was born, Javert, I’ve been climbing things since I could walk.”

“Ah, yes,” the pasta was ready and Javert took it to the table. Jean took the salad. “Things such as tree, vines, monestaries, low-rise walls, and fucking barracades. Totally normal things a sixty-something should be climbing.”

 _I’d love to climb you_ suddenly appeared in Jean’s head. It nearly left his head before Valjean realized what that was and- No. Absolutely not. What the hell? No, thats not- that wasn’t appropriate. “It appears I have a tendency to climb more than trees, but considering I have not broken much, I’d say its fine.”

There. That's better. 

Javert’s raised eyebrows and glance at his bad knee made the comment seem much more bearable and the unnecessary thought that was now irritating him to no end quite down for a bit.

“Sure. Whatever. Lets just eat.”

They sat down at the circular table, said grace, and passed out their servings (Costte was staying with Marius that night). 

And just like that, they ate.

And just like they, they existed. They lived. They went on.

It took a while, to establish their new normal. Eventually, those two weeks passed. Javert went to work, Valjean returned to his garden. Javert solved his cases, Valjean helped Cosette plan for college. Javert would shout and shoot and stalk and solve, Valjean would pray and care and weed and give. 

Javert would come every day, without fail, after his shift was called and he was forcefully coerced by everyone from Dubois and Rivette to Gisquet himself to leave within the hour, in that hoodie lent by Valjean, a clean pair of pants and the only pair of non-work shoes he had. 

The first time was a surprise. Given the man had let himself out of the house early that morning with all of his belongings (given, there were not that many, so one depressed bag sufficed), him at Jean’s door at six thirty on the dot was startling. 

(A lot of first things was a surprise with this man, like the fact his cigarettes was the same brand Jean smoked before Toulon, or the fact he liked a shot of caramel when he could in his coffee, or the fact he was an early bird who didn't know how to function until a solid nine in the morning. Little things. Humanizing things. They were fascinating, every first time Jean noticed.)

“What?” Javert would have sounded offended to anyone else, but Jean could hear the uncertain tremor. “Thought you’d get rid of me that easily?”

Jean, over his own shock, chuckled, letting the taller man in. “Hm, right. Couldn’t get rid of you for twenty years, what would be a day?”

Javert hummed, slipping off his shoes. They were a ratty old pair of converse, of all things, a fact that has entertained Jean and confused Javert many a’times in turn.

(“And people say _I’m_ a clueless one.”

“What? Why the fu--? They’re a fucking pair of _shoes_ , what secret meaning is there??”

“It’s style, Javert, come on.”

“What style? They’re comfortable, that’s the only style they should be.”

“Javert, its tag is about as old as I am, how do you not know.”

“Well excuse me for caring about more important things than the secret meanings of color or laces or whatever.”

“It's iconic for the rebel-skater thing, Javert.”

“ _What_ \--”)

Jean first thought it was for a free meal - the fundraisers in Monteil had always done better when there was a potluck paired. Even Javert would end up at those. Jean knew it was a rude assumption, but this was Javert. Even with the last few months and whatever tentative thing they had built out of the Seine, why would he seek Jean company at all?

Interestingly enough, it was for the conversation

“Everyone at the office looks at me like I'm made of glass,” Javert confessed after some not-very-smooth, very much awkward prompting. “At least here I’ll hear shit straight.” 

Valjean snorted before he could help himself. “And here I was sure it was for my fantastic home cooking.”

“No offense, Valjean,” Javert stared him dead in the eye. “It's not the best.”

“Wow, ow,” Jean actually was offended, he thought he was a pretty decent chief. But then he saw a tentative quirk edging at the end of Javert’s lips, and realized he was trying to smile. “Wait. Wait wait wait, Javert, did you just try to tell a joke?”

“Hm.”

“Did the infamous Javert just try to tell a joke? Is he trying to smile? Oh good lord above. Someone pinch me, I think I’m hallucinating.”

“Have you been taking drugs, Valjean?” Javert asked, cocking an eyebrow in a stern tone, diminished by the never ceasing twitching of his lip-corners.

“Ha! No, not my flavor, I’ll stick to tea.”

“There was this one time we found weed-tea.”

Jean looked at Javert, still looking goofy in his rusty attempts at smiling, looking definitely less dead than the first time he walked over that threshold, definitely less ansty than the last time he walked over. “Please tell me you’re still trying to joke.” 

“It was either weed or opit, I don’t quite remember, but it was a Class III Hallucinogenic, and Nay, being Nay, had…”

(When did they become this comfortable? Neither knew. It just, started one day, and neither really looked back. And it just, kept going. Something about not needing to hide and knowing every side and other things like the poetry that Javert never liked and Valjean rarely read.)

(If you wanted to keep count, it probably started the first time Valjean told Javert off for wearing shoes in his house; or the time Javert got pissy about staying in bed _even with a broken leg I can walk, thank you very much;_ or when Valjean threw a rock at Javert’s calf because he walked into the tulips patch and was compacting the dirt; or when Javert ranted for two hours about the inconsistency of water quality and tastes throughout the city, ranking it from Seine Shit Tasting to Rainbows and Sunshine Stupidity Clear with Valjean’s less than helped other ranks, such as Swamp Lead, Rusty Furnace Heater, or Lilly Water - _what does that even mean, Valjean? / you seem to agree to it / because I don’t know what i means so I’m making up a meaning. / isn’t that this entire thing? / … fu._ ; or that time when Valjean started going off about how piss-poor the cities’ management of the oaks and willows along the river were, and Javert listened intently, enraptured; or when--

well, you get the idea.) 

And it became a part of their new normal. A breakfast conversation, a day to themselves, dinner at six thirty, and conversation until late in the evening when Javert would take his leave or fall asleep on the couch. 

The couch incidents would happen more often than naught, for he may be kicked out of the office but his laptop housed many of the files he worked on. And no matter how many times Jean complained to him about sleeping properly in a proper bed, he did it best on a too small couch in a living room he favored over his own. Jean, for all his nagging, really did not mind. He at least knew the man was sleeping this way and eating in the morning.

And nearly three months in his house ment that Jean knew how to carry Javert in such a way that the man would not wake. Hell, in all that time he figured out _how_ to carry him. Damn tall people and their awkward proportions.

But that is how it went. Jean wouldn’t trade those quiet evenings - of talking and arguing and discussion and occasionally reading and resting - for most anything. 

And if Jean was only a bit too soft, a bit too gentle, a bit too tender when Javert fell asleep on him for the third time in a week, permitting the younger man’s head to rest against his shoulder or even his lap for far longer than polite; well, no one was to know but himself. 

It was thus the way autumn met them; drowsy and content enough. 


End file.
